Shattered Glass Tales
by ultharkitty
Summary: A collection of ficlets with G1 Shattered Glass settings. Focuses on Protectobots, Ratchet and Combaticons. See individual headers for content advice. Only the first four will be in chronological order.
1. In which First Aid meets Ratchet

**Author's note:**

This is a collection of fics in different Shattered Glass settings. Some of them will be set in naboru's Disillusion AU, and some of them will be set in the same 'verse as 'The Adventures of Mirrorverse Vortex'. Each one will have a full header. **Please heed the content advice!**

These will mainly focus on the Protectobots, Ratchet, and the Combaticons. Their charcterisation is mostly naboru's work, with some input from me. A full list of Disillusion AU fics can be found on naboru's master list, which is here:

http:/ / moebiusschleife . livejournal . com /1011. html#cutid4

(to access the link, copy it into your address bar and remove the spaces)**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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><p><strong>Title:<strong> Training**  
><strong>

**Setting:** Disillusion AU

**Rating:** PG-13

**Content Advice:** mention of drug taking, non-consensual medical experiments, drinking, and a bit of vomitousness.

**Characters:** SG First Aid and SG Ratchet

**Summary:** Only fourteen days since his activation, and First Aid is sent to train with Ratchet.

**Notes:** A quartex is stated on the wiki to be roughly one Earth month in IDW, although it's used in the G1 cartoon with no meaning attached. I've pinched it for this because I like the sound of it ;)

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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><p>First Aid peered around the workshop, his palms itching. No way anyone could work in this mess. It was disgusting; parts heaped upon parts, the lower ones oxidising from age, and over everything lay a dust-clogged oily smear. Sure, his own workspace wasn't a paragon of tidiness, but it was nothing compared with this.<p>

"Well, there you are!" A mech leapt up from the chaos, causing an avalanche of dead metal. "Aren't you just the cutest little diode!"

"Training!" First Aid squeaked, leaping back. His aft hit a bench, the reverberation pounding through his head. Oh frag, not again. He should never have left his stash in his room; what he wouldn't do for a stim virus right about now.

"You OK there?" Ratchet cried. It had to be Ratchet. Who else would be hiding under a heap of corroded metal in Ratchet's own workshop? The mech shook himself free, his smile wide and incongruously clean armour shining, then headed over to First Aid. "Let's take a look at you!"

"Training?" First Aid repeated, and tried not to cringe. Slag, Ratchet was loud; his voice cut right through First Aid's CPU and made the pounding feel more like a drill. It didn't help when Ratchet grabbed his arms and started prodding him.

"Mind the paintjob," First Aid grumbled, but his tanks chose that moment to rebel against the cocktail of energon additives he'd poured into them the night before, and he swayed, suddenly queasy.

"Nice arrangement," Ratchet commented. "Good couplings, tough finish. Here, lemme…"

First Aid grabbed the bench, and tried not to purge as Ratchet opened up his maintenance hatch. "Wha'…" he began, but it faded to giggles as Ratchet began to root around inside. Unfortunately, he could only focus on one thing at once – the tickling, or trying not to purge – and something had to give.

Ratchet pulled back, only narrowly avoiding getting thrown up on. "_Oh_, that's grim. What are they giving you to drink, slurry?"

"…'periment," First Aid groaned, but at least the queasiness was fading. "Better now."

"Uhuh." Ratchet didn't look convinced. He closed up First Aid's hatch and moved onto his back. "You ever thought about spines?" he said. "A row of spines all down your arms. Like poison darts. You could shoot them at your enemies."

First Aid shook his head. That actually sounded pretty good. But he had his orders. "No upgrades," he said. "Prime says."

Ratchet's shoulders slumped. "Oh. Oh well."

"But you gotta train me or something. You got any coolant? My mouth tastes like exhaust."

"On the side," Ratchet pointed at a tank that looked older than he was.

First Aid gave it a wary look, but it was either that or taste his own purge for the rest of the cycle. "The boss did tell you I was coming?" he said, and went straight for the spigot. No point looking for a clean cup.

"Sure!" Ratchet replied. "I'm only sad he didn't send you down before. So much work, so little time. Could have done with an extra pair of hands. Or four, if he'd let me graft you a few more… How long have you been online now?"

"Almost half a quartex," First Aid responded. He released the coolant directly into his mouth and gargled it a bit, then realised he had nowhere to spit it out.

"Frag, really? Thought they'd had you lot up and running ages ago." Ratchet's expression of wonderment turned into a smirk. "Just use the floor, you already puked all over it."

First Aid shrugged; that was fine by him. And yeah, that felt better. His head was still pounding, and he craved a stim card like crazy, but he felt kinda… clean inside. It was weird. "You know _what _you gonna teach me?" First Aid asked.

"I sure do," Ratchet said. "Come this way."

What First Aid had taken for Ratchet's workshop really wasn't. It was storage, a dumping ground, the place other mechs left him tribute in the hope that when it was their turn he'd give them something more than a saw for a hand.

His real workshop was glorious. Not exactly spotless, and far from tidy, but the shelves were packed with jar upon jar of liquids First Aid didn't even know the names of (and wanted instantly to taste). Racks of tools and gleaming, clean assorted spares lined the walls, and a row of medical bunks occupied the centre of the floor.

Only one held a patient. He was unconscious, but it wouldn't matter if he woke. The chains were tight and strong, and Ratchet had taken the added precaution of removing his vocorder.

"They can get a bit over-excited," he explained. "Especially when they wake up halfway through. Hey _don't put that in your mouth!_"

First Aid paused, his glossa almost touching the rim of a cube. "Huh?" No taste testing the liquids? That was disappointing. He gestured at the patient. "Can I put it in _his_ mouth?"

Ratchet grinned, and it was the happiest smile First Aid had ever seen. "Sure," he said. "When he wakes up." He took the cube out of First Aid's hands and patted his shoulder tire. "I like your programming," he commented. "You're gonna fit in here just fine."


	2. In which Blades is jealous

**Title:** Experiment  
><strong>Setting:<strong> Disillusion AU  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Content advice:<strong> consensual medical experiment, mention of interfacing.  
><strong>Characters andor pairings:** SG Blades, SG First Aid, mention of SG Ratchet  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Blades has come to find his team mate.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This one's for naboru, who gave me the bunny while we were chatting about these guys by email :D 

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><p>.<p>

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><p>Blades wasn't pleased.<p>

He peered around the door to Ratchet's workshop, a scowl on his face and his cables so tense he felt as though they might snap. First Aid was strapped to a bunk, his fingers twitching and his laughter ringing out loud and clear.

Ratchet was nowhere to be seen.

Blades ran a scan of the room, just in case the mech was ducked down behind a table or hiding in a closet. There was no sign of him. Good.

Blades snuck into the room. Ratchet had some explaining to do. Keeping First Aid tied up, not letting him see his team, not letting him out on missions. Probably 'facing him stupid. Right here. On this pit-spawned slagging bunk.

Snarling, Blades looked around for something to kick. But there was nothing that didn't look dangerous. And that was more trouble than he needed right now.

"Hehehehe, copter!" First Aid giggled. The bunk squealed as he tried to sit up, and failed.

Blades hurried over, but couldn't find any way to undo the bonds. "Where is he?" he growled. "I'll tear him apart."

"Nononononononono," First Aid replied, suddenly serious. "You gotta go, we got experimental conditions. You're not part of the parameters." Then he burst into giddy laughter again.

It felt as though the floor had been whipped out from under Blades' feet. His optics filled with dark little stars; his equilibrium failed. "What?" he said.

"Gogogogogo!" First Aid giggled. "You're ruining our science!"

Blades sagged. It wasn't meant to go like this. First Aid was meant to welcome him with open arms (and everything else), to plead with him to cut the bonds and take him back to their quarters. "You don't mean it," he said.

"Science!" First Aid cried, in the same tone a Decepticon might use for 'justice!' or 'freedom!' or any of their other stupid words. Blades decided he didn't like science.

And he didn't like Ratchet. In fact, he hated Ratchet. No, he _loathed_ him, despised him with every micron of his overheated frame. There wasn't a word for how he felt about Ratchet.

"Suit yourself!" he snapped, and whirled for the exit. First Aid would be sorry, and so would Ratchet. Blades would make sure of it.


	3. Motormaster gives First Aid a hug

**Title:** Falling

**Continuity:** Shattered Glass

**Rating:** R

**Content advice:** drug abuse, mention of character death

**Characters and/or pairings:** SG First Aid, SG Hook, SG Motormaster

**Summary:** Evil First Aid has been captured by the Decepticons. Hook and Motormaster have a constructive exchange of opinions on what to do with him.

**Notes:** Caia gave me this prompt 'SG Motormaster being terrifyingly affectionate', and this whole scenario kinda scares me, so I hope I hit the right note! 

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><p>First Aid hunched at the back of the cell, shivering. It felt as though the walls were melting, the floor too. Like he was rushing dizzy down a long and dissolute tunnel, and there was nothing beneath him but air. He saw the cell, the recharge station, the energon bars crackling the full length of one wall. But they weren't real, they couldn't be. Otherwise how could he be falling?<p>

After a while, he became aware of voices. An automated program ran recognition protocols without his conscious instruction: Motormaster, the odd, immense grounder, and Hook, the Decepticon medic. He heard their words, analysed them, logged them, but had absolutely no idea what they were saying.

"We can't keep him in there," Motormaster said. "He's so young. He needs a constructive, nurturing environment."

"You can't save them all," Hook responded, and even though First Aid couldn't pull meaning from the tangle of syllables, he knew regret when he heard it. He raised his head, the final kick of the stim virus making his every cable tremble.

"But he's frightened," Motormaster protested. "Look at him!"

Hook sighed. "He's high," he said, and _that_ First Aid understood. High, floating, falling, travelling at speed through this weird long pipe, while the ghostly room with the bunk and the bars and the Decepticons outside travelled with him.

He wondered if their tanks felt as though they'd been flipped upside down, because his sure did. But he couldn't get his vocorder lined up with whatever it was doing the thinking. He didn't remember its name. Ratchet had told him, had shown him piece by piece which parts of a mech's cybernetic brain controlled which elements of their self, but the knowledge was gone. For now.

Maybe he'd remember again later.

"And who let him get like that?" Motormaster said. He didn't raise his voice, but the intensity of his emotion was clear. "His activation date was a quartex ago. _One_ quartex. He should be learning what it is to live, not sent out to… to do what _they_ wanted him to do."

"What do you suggest?" Hook snapped, and First Aid tried to crawl towards the bars, to ask him to say that again, he hadn't caught it the first time. He didn't though; his hydraulics weren't quite under his control.

"Just that we help him," Motormaster replied. The bars fizzled out, maybe they'd stopped falling? And Hook was saying something, loud, indignant. Something about a dead mech, about grieving and replacement and why it never worked. First Aid looked up into an immense pair of optics, so very close. Then massive arms wrapped around him, and the vibrations of a large and powerful engine thrummed through his frame. He clung to the unfamiliar shoulders, in case Motormaster too stopped falling and went away like the bars. First Aid didn't want that, the thrumming was soothing, pleasant.

"This is a bad idea," Hook said.

"Maybe," Motormaster sighed. "But it's better than the alternative."


	4. Blades, First Aid and Streetwise

**Title:** Empty  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Content advice:<strong> slash, a little rough flirtation, medical experimentation, drugs  
><strong>Characters andor pairings:** Blades/First Aid, Streetwise  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Blades isn't sure what's happened to Streetwise, but whatever it is, it can't be good.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This was written to explore a bit of characterisation. It occurrs a while after Training and Falling.

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><p>.<p>

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><p>"I think you broke him." Blades slouched by the door, fingering a bottle of frag-knew-what. It was green and oily with little rusty flecks.<p>

First Aid leaned over Streetwise, the smaller mech lying prone on a worktable in the centre of the room. "Put that back," he snapped. "And throw me a half-unit sensor block."

Blades lay the vial back on the worktop - carefully, just in case it leaked and started eating through his fingers - and glanced around for a sensor block. He only had the vaguest idea what he was looking for.

"Top cupboard on the right." First Aid vented hard. "C'mon, hurry up."

Blades didn't see the point. Streetwise wasn't registering a pain response, so why did he need a sensor block? For all Blades could tell, he wasn't registering anything at all, and there was nothing coming through the bond.

"Fraggit, _now!_" First Aid snarled.

Blades huffed and tugged a likely looking box out of the cupboard. He slammed it down on his team mate's tool tray.

"There," Blades snapped. "You want some high grade to go with that? Or maybe I could fix you up with a couple of little Cassetticon slaves." Blades hefted himself onto a table, his legs dangling. "I could get 'em some collars and a little chain and stuff."

First Aid glared. "Shut. The. Frag. Up. And hold this."

Blades stuck out his hands without thinking, and was rewarded with a chunk of First Aid's armour. A nice hefty bit off the side. Well, that explained where the sensor block was going. He peered around, trying to catch a glimpse of the poisoner's ember.

"Pervert," First Aid said, as the block clicked into place. He sighed, his visor flaring, and snatched the armour back. "Stop looking at me like that. And I didn't break Streetwise."

"Yeah?" Blades leaned forward and snapped his fingers over Streetwise's face. There was no response. "Then why're the lights all on but nobody's home?"

First Aid shrugged. "Fragged if I know," he said, but he refused to meet Blades' optics. He repositioned his armour, his internals whirring as it re-attached.

"Sure, you got _no_ idea." Blades hopped down from the table and began poking around. "That's what you're gonna tell Hot Spot, right?" He picked up one bottle, then another, their contents sloshing; there was no telling what they contained. "Let me get this right. You got no idea what happened to _our_ mech while he was on _your_ table in _your_ lab under _your _care. Right?"

First Aid tutted. "I'll tell him what he needs to hear."

"Why the slag do you never label anything?"

"Don't need to," First Aid said. "All right, Streetwise, up."

There was a clatter behind him and Blades almost shot out of his armour. He spun around, a canister of something warm and glowing gripped a little too tightly in his hand. The bond still registered nothing from Streetwise - exactly what it would if he was in stasis lock - and yet the mech had just sat up.

"Hey," Blades said. He put the canister down and forced himself to clap Streetwise on the arm. "Hey, you OK there?" He'd better be; one more hunt when they couldn't form Defensor, and Optimus would dump the lot of them in the smelter.

But Streetwise didn't respond.

"Get the slag out of here," First Aid said. "Go on, frag off."

Blades snarled and headed for the door, but First Aid grabbed him by the rotor hub. "Not you, scrap head."

It was only the sight of Streetwise carefully picking his way through the jumble of worktables and stacks of boxes that stopped Blades from tearing First Aid's arms off. Fragging grounders, they always had been a problem. Their experimental medic more than most.

"He'll be fine," First Aid said, as Streetwise quietly exited the room. "He's just got a few things to, y'know, _process_." The touch on Blades' rotors changed, moving from harsh to soft in an instant. Maybe 'problem' wasn't quite the right word.

"Oh has he?" Blades said. He got the urge to bend over the table, let his partner do whatever he wanted to. But this was the lab, the last place he wanted to be when he couldn't see First Aid's hands. He shoved the junk aside, clearing a space on the surface large enough for the grounder's aft. "Get up there," he said.

For a moment, he thought First Aid would protest, but the sensor block seemed to have mellowed him; Blades didn't want to think what was running through his systems.

"You're not gonna lift me?" First Aid whined. His mask slid back, revealing a lop-sided grin. That was more like it. Blades could cope with an unbalanced, half-cut team mate, but one that snapped and yelled and tried to haul him around by his rotors? That wouldn't get his engine going.

Reaching behind himself, he snatched First Aid's arm and flung him around, backing him up against the table. "You gonna behave?" he said. A tiny, shining object fell from First Aid's fingers. Blades kicked it under a crate. "No yelling," he growled. "No sticking me with scrap unless I know what's in it, no throwing your weight around. You got that?"

First Aid held up his hands, uncurling his fingers to show that his palms were, for once, empty. Then he edged forward, pressing himself against his team mate; his armour was scorching. "What do I get in return?"

Blades squeezed his shoulder tires, then swung him up onto the worktop. He scraped his fingers along the edge of First Aid's interface panel. "Open up, and you'll find out."


	5. Optimus and First Aid, noncon, dark

**Title:** First time prompt response: SG First Aid

**Setting:** the same AU as 'The Adventures of Mirrorverse Vortex'.

**Content advice: **rape, nonconsensual administering of an aphrodisiac, explicit sticky, abuse of power, size kink. 

**Characters and/or pairings:** Optimus/First Aid

**Summary:** Optimus enjoys one of the perks of being Prime

**Notes:** Written in response to a meme on LJ where people name a character and the writer produces a short fic about how they lost their virginity. This one was written for xianghua, who asked for SG First Aid.

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><p>The world was made of purple and glass and little green lights. Everything swam, the things inside First Aid's head as well as the things outside of it. He remembered a datachip, dark fingers slotting it into him, then a rush of heat and a dizziness that just wouldn't end.<p>

He heard his Prime's voice, so deep and relaxing, and he couldn't make out the words, but the sound, oh the sound he could float on forever. He caught a light under his palm and laughed, then the world lurched, the colours spinning and swirling, and he lost it again. It didn't matter, though, because his Prime was still talking, inflection rising in query. First Aid tried to look up, to find those red eyes in the whirlpool, but a sudden heat burst out from his ember and he forgot what it was he was searching for.

He squirmed, restless, not quite comfortable. He tried to bring his legs together, but his thighs were parted around his Prime's hips, the joints stretched so far his servos groaned. The heat was tremendous, a terrible friction burning every circuit, searing along each wire. Something touched the panel between his legs and he whined long and high, an ache spearing up into the core of him, intense and agonising.

Words flitted across his HUD, but he lacked the focus to read them. Another touch between his legs, and a rumble of his Prime's powerful engine. It shook through him, forcing him to shutter his optics, to cling with his thighs lest his grip on Optimus fail and he fall.

He didn't want to fall. He wanted the little green lights, he wanted coolant; he wanted the heat and the itch and the urgent frustration to be gone. And the ache, which only got worse as his Prime stroked him, and the warmth from Optimus's vents tingled in his transformation seams.

Then somehow his armour came loose, and a tiny fraction of the heat ebbed away. But it was replaced with a discomforting sensation of exposure, made all the worse for the very clear feeling of something - something stiff and slick and wide – touching that most vulnerable part of himself, and pushing steadily inside.

It stung, oh _frag_ how it stung. It was too much, too slow, too large. But his engine revved regardless, and he writhed to make the whole thing faster, to force an increase in friction in the desperate hope it would make the pain subside.

It didn't. Wires stretched and the tiny gears that controlled the expansion and contraction of his valve screeched their complaint in line after line of warnings flashing up on his HUD. Then a pressure on his hips, fingers tight as his Prime moved him, each impact jarring right the way through First Aid's frame. His head ached with every thud, and his thoughts were a storm of fragments, nothing cohesive, nothing linked.

When it came, the fluid seared, and he whimpered as his Prime withdrew and the liquid trickled, caustic, over every damaged sensor.

Then a pressure against his back, and something new between his legs. A fresh warmth, a wriggling object smaller than the spike. It pressed inside him, not large enough to stretch him – not after _that_ – and lapped over the raw, sore metal. It made his gears turn again, made him attempt to cycle down around it. He brought his optics online, and tried to look past the rise of his abdominal armour to see what it was that had managed to spark pleasure in the midst of so much hurt.

He saw dark antennae, the glow of red optics. Then he screamed as the heat and the tension and the cruel, urgent frustration reached a peak all at once.

He seemed to collapse, his limbs weak and his engine stuttering. A roar in his audials could have been his fans, but it could have been his Prime's engine. He couldn't tell which way was up, but that might be OK; he wasn't falling any more, and the little green lights were back. His optics flickered as he tried to focus on them.

"Give him a cycle," the Prime said, "then bring him to me again." But First Aid didn't catch the meaning; he was far too busy trying to catch the lights.


End file.
